


Inquiries into the Heart of the World

by mikkey_bones



Category: Doctrine of Labyrinths - Sarah Monette
Genre: Academia, Books, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felix takes seven books with him into exile. Five of them are Gideon's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inquiries into the Heart of the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hecateis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecateis/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy this fic and aren't put off by the surprising amount of academia it contains. It took me a long time to find Gideon's voice and when I did, he didn't want to stop talking. Especially about books.
> 
> Also, a quick thank you to Lois aka [oatrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution) for giving me the idea of how to construct this fic, and then coming to visit, indulging me in long conversations about what to write about, and crying with me over Gideon.

_I could take five of Gideon's books_.

 _I picked the_ Principia Lucis _because Gideon had considered it the greatest theoretical work on thaumaturgy ever written;_ A Treatise Upon Spirit _and the_ Psukhomakhia _because I had made him happy by finding them for him; the new_ Concerning the Thaumaturgy of Wood _because that was the book he had been reading when..._

*

LAFONTAINE, Virgil. _Principia Lucis —_ arguably (and I would argue) the greatest theoretical work on thaumaturgy ever written. Lafontaine takes a didactic tone in the beginning of the work, starting with explanations of the most basic thaumaturgical concepts. His axiom/proof structure becomes gradually more complex as the work continues. The last section is devoted to a highly theoretical abstraction on finer points of thaumaturgic architecture, where Lafontaine speculates about the existence and the benefit of possible alternative world-geometries for thaumaturgical structures.

*

When, over breakfast in his suite, Felix informed me about Lord Blaise's proposal—remedial magic instruction for the young wizards most in need of it—I was surprised, though the complex system of peerage and apprenticeship practiced in the Mirador had always been confusing to me and a year and a half had not made it easier to understand. And Felix did not exactly seem the teaching type. Because he was in a good mood, and therefore amenable to honesty, I told him that much.

And then, because I wanted him to remain in a good mood and because it was true, I added, :You have not taken an apprentice, after all. Do you have any experience working with young people?:

He grimaced at me from across the table. “I don't think Lord Blaise's first priority is my 'experience,'” he pointed out dryly, speaking aloud. “He knows I am a powerful wizard, and he is working to give these children the tools they need for success. I told him I would not take apprentices,” he added, his gaze shuttered.

I had learned enough about Felix's relationship with his own master, Malkar Gennadion, that I did not find such a resolution at all surprising.

:What will happen to these children if you refuse to teach?:

“Lord Blaise will find someone else to teach them, I imagine,” Felix replied flippantly, but he knew what I was truly asking. “They are children from Mélusine and her surroundings,” he added. “Doubly disadvantaged because they are poor and not exotic enough to warrant the interest of my peers.” His tone was dry. “Many in their position find the Mirador's teachings too difficult, the apprenticeship system inaccessible. They often leave.”

:And then what happens to them?:

Felix shrugged. “Most of them take what they have learned into apprenticeships with non-Cabaline wizards in the city.”

As a wizard who had been trained in the Bastion, I found the entire situation bizarre. Eusebians were recruited at a young age and pressed into the Imperial Army at the same time they began their thaumaturgical training; those with lesser talent would still remain sworn to the Bastion and would advance as soldiers even if their standing among Eusebians was low. Most older lieutenants were in this situation—it was an easy way for the Empire to keep a monopoly on magic use in the area. I told Felix as much. :It has never made very much sense to me, that the Mirador would recruit eligible young wizards and then allow them to defect so easily.:

“Hence the periodic witch hunts to find heretic wizards and eliminate them,” Felix said brightly, and in his phrasing I heard an echo of the Bastion. I glanced at Mildmay, whose expression was unreadable. “Also,” he added, “it isn't called 'defection' when you leave the Mirador.”

:Forgive me,: I replied dryly. :My Eusebian tutelage is showing.:

Felix laughed—he was in a very good mood, and exuding the kind of humor that meant either he was completely at ease or he was nervous and exerting himself heroically not to show it. I was beginning to believe that this was the latter case.

I tested the waters. :And what will you be teaching them?:

Like I thought, the laughter had been a mask for his anxiety. His lips thinned slightly and he looked down at his plate. “I'm not sure where to start. My own training was hardly... orthodox.”

:Might I suggest using the first three parts of Lafontaine's _Principia Lucis_ as a basic theoretical text? You can elaborate on each of his premises, of course.:

Felix looked up again, his eyes narrowing as they did when he was interested. “Why Lafontaine? He's so _dry_.”

:I was not under the impression that you had been asked to play the dancing bear and _entertain_ these children for three hours,: I pointed out, my tone slightly waspish. Felix was a brilliant wizard when he tried, and if a problem interested him, he would work on it tirelessly until he solved it. When something didn't interest him, however, he tended to be brutal.

This time, he acknowledged my reprimand. “You're right, of course. But still, why Lafontaine?”

:I do not know the teaching practices of the Mirador, but if these children are struggling it is likely because they do not have a firm enough grasp on thaumatugical theory, and because they lack someone who will answer their basic questions.:

Now the interest was back in Felix's gaze. “And therefore, the Lafontaine—”

:Would allow you to sketch out a basic theoretical primer for them, fill in possible gaps in their knowledge, and make whatever thaumaturgical digressions you wish,: I finished for him. :And no matter what you say about Lafontaine, he is more interesting than, say, the _Principia Caeli_.:

Felix laughed again. “You remember me complaining to you about discussing it in committee?”

:At length.:

“Simon and I were the only two in the entire committee who had even read the thing,” Felix added, returning to the story. “I remember catching his eye halfway through Edgar's recitation of the entire second chapter, when I was trying not to fall asleep. He winked at me and I nearly had to leave, I was trying so terribly hard not to laugh.”

I chuckled and then informed him, :You are trying to change the subject.:

“Is it working?”

:You are shameless,: I said because Felix's good mood, nervous or not, was contagious. :And no, it is not. You still have not told me whether you even intend to teach.:

“I don't see how it could hurt,” Felix said, and there was a defensive edge in his tone.

I raised my eyebrows at him. :I am not the one you need to convince.:

He lowered his chin and acknowledged my point, which showed he was truly nervous. Usually, when he had the opportunity, Felix would take the opportunity for argument and worry it to death like a dog with a bone. “I am going to teach. It's only Lundy afternoons, and it gets me out of any other commitments.”

He was talking about the committee meeting he occasionally attended, one with Agnes Bellarmyn also in attendance. :So this is for you, then, and not for the children?: I asked mildly.

I was aware I had pressed too far in my efforts to elicit an honest response even before Felix stood. “I am going to teach,” he repeated in a tone that brooked no arguments, and I knew that any efforts to further this conversation would be futile. So I gave Felix my mildest look and said nothing as he pushed his chair in behind him and moved into the bedroom to change for Court.

Mildmay was still at the breakfast table, sipping at a cup of Rollo's expertly blended strong black tea. Not for the first time, I wondered what he thought of Felix's half-conversations with me, how much he guessed or understood, and I wished that it was easier for me to communicate with him. But as usual, his face was expressionless, and I felt he had not been paying very much attention to our conversation at all.

I poured myself a second cup of tea from the pot in the center of the table and was halfway through it before Felix finally came out in Court attire, wearing that hideous purple-red coat that he loved so well. “Let's go, Mildmay,” he said, and Mildmay rose wordlessly to his feet. I thought I had punctured his good mood and assumed he would say no more on the subject of teaching, but halfway out the door, he added, his tone slightly hesitant, “The Lafontaine, _Principia Lucis_... would you happen to have a copy?”

I smiled, overtaken by a sudden and familiar fondness. :Yes. On your shelves.:

“Oh, well then,” Felix said, looking slightly helpless as he always did when he wanted to express his feelings but wasn't sure how. It was these unguarded moments I cherished, because they reminded me of the person in Felix that I loved in spite of my better interests—my instinct for self-preservation, for example. “Thank you.”

:Good luck,: I told him, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him blush before he shut the door and left for Court.

*

D'ISLAY, Chattan, _A Treatise Upon Spirit —_ a pedagogic and insightful work, offering several useful definitions (among them the distinction between _phenomena_ and _noumena_ ). For d'Islay, magic worked in the spiritual realm of “noumena” is wholly different from magic worked with or on “phenomena,” and from this dichotomy he moves to a discussion of the purpose and nature of noumenic workings. D'Islay was a renowned necromancer and his specialty is evident here, especially in the last part of the work, which deals with magical workings that combine phenomenic and noumenic forms.

_*_

On Jeudy afternoon I went to work in the Archive of Crows. It was one of the few places I felt comfortable alone in the Mirador; usually, to go out, I preferred Felix's company, or at the very least that of Mildmay or Simon. But the Archive of Crows had a quiet and studious atmosphere, which often helped me clear my head after long hours of reading in Felix's suite. I was hoping that surrounding myself with fellow scholars would help me work through a particularly knotty problem—I was attempting a synthesis of Gordon Weaver's architectural precepts and Eudoria Holt's guidelines for thaumaturgical structures. As with any attempt to combine disparate thaumaturgical idioms, it was not going smoothly.

Thaddeus found me there, as strident and ill-omened as the birds from which the archive got its name. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Several heads turned in our direction. Especially when he was busy being righteously indignant, Thaddeus had never been good at keeping his voice down.

I looked up from my stack of books and scrap pieces of paper, as if the answer was not obvious. :Working,: I said, and then, because I knew it would irritate him, :Currently I am trying to work out a practical application of Holt's first principle of thaumaturgic stability when dealing with the creation of Weaver's hypothetical “large structures,” which—:

“Enough,” Thaddeus said, his voice short and sharp.

I regarded him with my best and mildest look. :As far as I am aware, this archive is freely accessible by non-Cabalines. Has the Curia changed the archival restrictions since last month?:

I was mocking him and Thaddeus knew it. He bristled, puffing up like a true crow. “I've always thought Louis Goliath taught you well,” he said, his voice loud in the silence of the archive. More heads turned our way.

I stood, closing my books and organizing my papers. Although he was doing his best to needle me, I refused to indulge Thaddeus's petty desire for a very public scene. But I couldn't resist getting in a parting jab. :For all you have to say about my relationship with Major Goliath, you talk about him more than I ever have.:

Thaddeus sputtered. I wished in that moment that I had broadcasted my reply to the entire room, much as Thaddeus had done with his loud greeting, but I was not petty enough to attempt to engage in mindspeech (“a small but meaningful violation of personal boundaries,” Elvire Winslow writes in one of her thaumaturgic etiquette guides) with a roomful of quiet scholars just to make a point.

:I believe these men and women have had enough disturbance for the day,: I added crisply while Thaddeus was still searching for a reply. :Since you cannot seem to find yourself in the same room with me without raising your voice, I will take my leave.:

I was thankful I did not drop anything as I quickly made my exit, and tried not to tell myself that I was fleeing.

So, I thought to myself as I walked through the halls of the Mirador back to Felix's suite, I had barely gotten any work done, and now Thaddeus knew one of my preferred places to work. Perhaps I could have Felix ask Giancarlo to write me the necessary letter that would allow me into the Fevrier Archive or another such quiet room. Felix, as a member of the Curia, could have written the letter himself, but as our relationship was public information, I felt that such an action would be frowned upon. And undeniably denounced as “spying” by Thaddeus.

Occasionally, I was able to convince myself that I was more free in the Mirador than I had been in the Bastion. Here, at least, undeniably, I had no need to be wary of sendings from Louis Goliath or ilk (though, in all fairness, I had learned how to close myself from such magic long ago). Here, too, in spite of all of Thaddeus's agitating, it was unlikely I would be summarily thrown into prison or burned for heresy. Not that the Bastion burned heretics, or that Eusebian doctrine contained any idea of heresy. Still, the many and various punishments for defecting from the Bastion were arguably worse than being burned alive.

Ephreal Sand explored notions of freedom in his magistral _Doctrine of Labyrinths_. So did Nahum Westerley, in his work _Inquiries into the World's Heart_. Neither author believed that true freedom can be gained in a situation where one lacks choices. And yet here I was, trying to convince myself that I had made a good choice, rather than merely exchanged one type of imprisonment for another.

By the time I reached Felix's suite I had put myself into a rather melancholy mood. I was startled out of it, at least partially, by the fact that Felix was already in the suite when I returned, sitting in his usual armchair with his feet kicked out in front of him. Mildmay was there as well, laying out a hand of cards. I nodded to both of them in greeting and put down my pile of books and papers. :Thaddeus found me in the Archive of Crows,: I began, turning to Felix. Then I stopped, distracted by the pleased look on his face, like a cat who has brought home a dead mouse for its owner and is waiting to be praised for it. :What?:

“I finally found it,” he said, breaking out into a smile.

:Found what?: I asked blankly, trying to remember whether he had been searching for something.

Felix pointed to the table. Rollo and Marcus had cleared it this morning; aside from the haphazard stack of books and papers I had just brought from the Archive of Crows, there was a linen-bound, folio-sized volume on the table, one that I had never seen before. I picked it up and stopped, surprised.

:Chattan d'Islay's—:

“ _A Treatise Upon Spirit_ , yes,” Felix said, his smile growing. “You were complaining that your copy had been taken in Aiaia, and you were halfway finished—”

:Two-thirds,: I corrected him.

For once, Felix let the correction stand. “Two-thirds of the way finished, then, when you lost it.”

:And you did not have a copy, nor did anyone I asked,: I added. This volume looked relatively new. The black cloth binding was smooth and the corners of the pages were sharp. I turned it over to see the stamp of the Imperial censor. :Empire make. Where did you get this?:

“It took me three trips into the city to finally find it, and only because Mildmay directed me to a bookseller who trades with the Empire,” Felix said proudly. “Or, I suppose, is involved in smuggling between the Empire and Marthine, but none of us were going to quibble about it.”

:Ah,: I said, raising my eyebrows and glancing over at Mildmay, who was regarding me with his impassive jade green eyes. I nodded my head in acknowledgment to him, offering him a smile. His expression softened with answering amusement and he went back to his cards. I turned back to Felix. :If the bookseller ever decides to let you into his store again, tell him I appreciate the risk.:

Felix laughed and then stood. “Now that you have d'Islay back, I need to get to my research,” he said, and I remembered that Jeudy was also Felix's free afternoon, one he often used to catch up on his thaumaturgical work (as opposed to his teaching, or politics).

Mildmay looked up. “You can stay here,” Felix said, turning his brilliant smile onto his brother. “I'll just be sitting around muttering to myself for several hours.”

“Sure,” Mildmay replied, going back to his cards.

I ran my finger down the spine of the book as Felix gathered his things, wondering if this edition had the same pagination as my old copy and, if so, whether I would remember where I had left off when the book was taken from me. I had quite forgotten my frustration—as well as my interest—in the thaumaturgical problems that had so occupied me all morning.

“Gideon?” Felix said at the door. I looked up, startled out of my ruminations. “Were you saying something about Thaddeus earlier? What happened?”

I shook my head. :It's not important,: I replied.

I knew that Felix was pressed to get to his own work, one of the few parts of his week he always enjoyed. I could see him debating whether or not to question me further, and was half-glad when he decided not to. “Alright then. Enjoy your book.” Then he flashed another brilliant smile and left.

Mildmay was giving me a curious look too. I shrugged at him and went to my own armchair, opening up _A Treatise Upon Spirit_. It smelled like fresh paper and ink and I found myself wondering exactly how much Felix had paid for this copy. Mildmay would know. I didn't want to ask.

I looked for where I had left off but already knew it would be a futile enterprise. Too much time had passed between then and now—too many things had happened, and I had spent a great deal of time and energy trying to put that time in Aiaia out of my mind. So after a few minutes, I started at the beginning. Better to recommence and gain a clear understanding than attempt to start in the middle.

“Don't it bother you?”

I was so engrossed in d'Islay's introduction—half in trying to understand it, and the other half in trying to remember reading it before—that I almost didn't hear Mildmay's question. I looked up after a beat, wondering if I had just imagined him speaking. But he was looking at me with that impassive expression again, waiting for my response.

I put down the book carefully, so as not to crease the binding, and reached into my pocket for the papers I kept there. I found the one with the question mark and showed it to him.

“Reading that again. Felix told me how they took it from you in Aiaia. Don't it make you remember... things?”

His voice was as delicate as the harsh accent allowed, and I remembered he, like Felix—like all of us—preferred not to talk about potentially sensitive topics unless we felt there was a true need for it. I was touched by his concern, but shook my head in response.

“Oh,” Mildmay said. Sometimes I wondered what our conversations would be like if we were able to communicate more effectively—if Mildmay could hear my voice in his mind, or even if he were more literate. If the events in Aiaia he was trying so hard not to mention had not taken place. “Okay.”

I nodded at him and returned to my book; when I glanced furtively up at him a minute later, he had returned to his cards.

That night though, lying warm and sated in bed with Felix, I dream that I am in that dark and filthy dungeon in Aiaia, the emptiness in my mouth filled with the cloying taste of blood and rot and death. Only it is not Aiaia, it is the Mirador and the Bastion rolled into one, and I am holding _A Treatise Upon Spirit_ so tightly in my arms that its corners feel like they are bruising me. And Thaddeus is trying to yank the book away from me. Only he is also the Duke, and Louis Goliath, and, in some strange twist of dream logic that somehow makes sense, he is Felix, too.

I woke in the morning with the lingering sensation that I had dreamt, and dreamt badly, but I could not remember my dream, and I was glad of it.

_*_

NAUSIKAAÏOS, Matthew, _Psukhomakhia_ , Edmond Sang translation — Difficult to find west of the Bastion, but the Sang translation is worth the trouble; my colleagues familiar with ancient Troian informed me that Sang is the only translator capable of rendering Nausikaaïos's lyricism into a comparable form of Midlander. The title _Psukhomakhia_ literally translates into “Battle of Souls” and, as many ancient Troian texts, is written in the form of an epic poem. The most interesting feature about this work, aside from the technique with which Nausikaaïos used poetics to explain his thaumaturgical inquiries, is the famous allegorical discourse between Death (representing necromantic forms of thaumaturgy) and the Statue (thaumaturgical practices that involve nonliving objects).

*

I had not spoken with Felix for three days when he came into the suite by himself, a book in his hands, and offered me one of his very best and most charming smiles. We had had worse fights, of course, though as usual Felix had been avoiding me because he did not want to discuss this one. To see him smiling at me was so incongruous I was not even taken in by its sweetness.

:What is it?: I asked, suspicion in my tone. Felix had probably enough time had passed that I would forget about his behavior with Edgar St. Rose at the soirée we had attended on Jeudy night, and that the fight, therefore, was effectively over. While it was true that I was no longer nearly as angry as I had been, I disliked his assumption that he could be the one to end this argument.

“Gideon, I know—” he began, and then cut himself off, making an impatient gesture, as if whatever equivocation or excuse he was going to make (I was hardly expecting an apology) was irrelevant. I bristled. “Look what I found.” He shoved the book at me.

I knew the book as soon as I took it, though I did not believe myself until I read the title: _Psukhomakhia_ , in gold embossed letters on faded green linen. Though the condition of the cover was not excellent and the corners of the book were worn, the binding held well as I opened it reverently. And the print on the page, though an archaic font, was large and easily readable.

I looked up at Felix. :The Sang translation?: I demanded even as I moved out of the armchair and over to the table, making sure its surface was clean before I gently laid the book down.

:The very one,: Felix replied, using mind-to-mind speak now that, I imagined, he knew I would not block him out. :It's the one you were looking for, wasn't it?:

:Yes,: I said distractedly, and barely reprimanded myself for forgetting about the fight. There were a great deal of things more important than Edgar St. Rose, and this book was near the top of that list. :That is the translation cited by Liliana Orleans in her memoir _Magistra Vitae_ , which is in turn cited by Rudolph van der Hart in _Introduction to a Theory of Signs_ , but I don't know if he ever read the original...: I looked up at Felix, who was watching me with the same wide smile on his face. He looked almost childlike in his happiness at having retrieved this book and I felt the rest of my resentment quickly dissolve. :Where did you find this?:

:The Archive of the Seven Queens,: Felix replied promptly, as though he had been waiting for me to ask. And he probably had. :When I was trying to find something else in Troian. That room is so full there are books piled on the floor, you know, and I tripped over this one when I stepped backwards without looking.:

:What a coincidence,: I said. In the Mirador, charged enough with magic to have become a working of thaumaturgical architecture itself, there was no such thing. And then I smiled at Felix because he was clumsy and charming and I forgave him.

:Indeed,: Felix said, and though the light in the suite was not very bright I did not think I imagined that he was blushing. :It was a nasty fall, though, and both my elbows are bruised.:

:Your elbows have performed a great service for thaumaturgical theory,: I told him dryly and elicited a bright laugh. I was already flipping carefully through the book, touching only the edges of the pages, mindful of the fact that it was likely no one had opened this book from the time it was placed in the archives until now. :You have read van der Hart, yes? I saw his book on your shelves.:

:Read...: Felix equivocacted and waved his hand. :I've skimmed it, yes. I found van der Hart's formulations fairly self-evident, though he constructed them in the most obscure way possible.:

Felix's skimming would likely give him as good an idea of the contents of the book as would a lesser wizard's close reading, so I did not make the snide comments I could have. :Do you recall his lengthy discussion of allegorical magic-making in the second chapter? It's a rather famous passage.:

:I might,: Felix equivocated as he moved to his shelves, searching for van der Hart's text. :Though I would be lying if I said I could recall any of the details.:

I took pity on him. :It's on the third shelf to the right, next to that heretical monograph series on divination in the various schools of magic.:

:Ah, yes,: Felix replied with a rueful grin. :Giancarlo still hasn't forgiven me for encouraging that bookseller to enable gross heresy.: He found the _Introduction to a Theory of Signs_ and opened it to the second chapter, beginning to read.

I had been skimming the _Psukhomakhia_ as we spoke, promising both myself and Matthew Nausikaaïos that I would return for a closer reading later. I stopped at the famous Book X. In this edition, the illustrated frontspiece of the chapter was an engraving that showed a hooded and cloaked skeleton standing on the ground, looking up at a marble statue on a plinth. The statue—a marble woman, draped with a single cloth that covered her hips and half of her chest—was drawn to resemble Troian style sculptures.

I began to read:

_O Death, the sign of power, stealing life_  
 _to chain the Spirit as an engine for thy Will,  
creeping in darkness, dreams, and rotted things..._

The sonorous intonation of Sang's translation reminded me uncomfortably of some of the rituals I had attended in the Bastion, the ones devoted to worship of the White-Eyed Lady, and I felt Her cold and creeping presence begin to cloud my mind, as though a shadow had reached out and touched a finger to my heart.

I closed the book—I would read later, alone—and threw myself into the more curious aspects of the usage of this text, taking refuge, as always, in academic concerns.

:I've always wondered if van der Hart's citations were accurate,: I told Felix. As I spoke I felt the shadow recede gradually from my heart. :He gives a highly informative exegesis of the famous conversation between Death and the Statue, applying it to an understanding of magic that prefigures, in a way, Cabaline doctrine, but his entire analysis is based, as far as I can tell, on Orleans's highly stylized reading in _Magistra Vitae_ , as ancient Troian texts have never been widely available, especially east of—: I stopped myself in the middle of my rambling and looked up, rather sheepishly, to see Felix looking at me with a blank expression.

“I'm sorry,” he said out loud. “But Gideon, I'm afraid that you've lost me.”

I laughed silently. :My apologies. I haven't been this excited about finding a book since...: I didn't know. I waved it off. :And I hardly expect you to be familiar with Orleans. She was one of the major forces in creating the close alliance between the Bastion and the Eusebian school.: Which was a gross reduction of the long and colorful relationship between the creation of the Bastion and the foundation of Eusebian wizardry, but I forgave myself for it; a lengthier explanation would take hours. :It's not exactly recommended reading for an orthodox Cabaline.: The oblates of the Bastion were required to read _Magistra Vitae_ in the second year of their service.

“I see,” Felix said, and chuckled. “Then I trust you to tell me about anything interesting you find.”

The words could have easily been mocking, and probably would have been when spoken by Felix on any other occasion. Now, however, I knew that he meant them, and I smiled at him, the Lady's presence having receded, at least for now. :I certainly will,: I said, and then added, :Come here.:

Felix put down the van der Hart and, with interest in his gaze, walked over to me.

I rarely initiated sexual activities, feeling a lingering uncertainty and embarrassment that was left over from the Bastion and that Felix, for all his cajoling, could not pry from me. And it did not help that I often saw him flirting with others. Edgar St. Rose was only one member of the Court he had on his string. But Edgar St. Rose was not here at the moment, and I endeavored to push him out of my mind as I placed a hand lightly on Felix's hip and said, :I think you deserve a reward.:

:For my clumsiness?: Felix asked, and I sensed that note of something bitter in his tone, as though he were speaking not only to me but also to some memory that still haunted him.

:No,: I replied, and leaned up to kiss him. :For your thoughtfulness.:

*

SALAZAR, Marion, _Concerning the Thaumaturgy of Wood —_

*

Rinaldo and Simon had two bedrooms in their suite. Out of courtesy, Simon moved himself to Rinaldo's room when I came to stay with them, giving me a room to myself. “Rinaldo's bedroom is too big for him, anyway,” he said, dismissing my offer to sleep in a camp bed or on one of the armchairs in the parlor. “And we've lived together for a while now, you know, in a much smaller space than this.”

I often wondered whether I had seen Simon and Rinaldo in the Bastion, or whether they had seen me. By the time that Simon, at least, was taken, I believe that I had withdrawn greatly from public life. It had been after my split with Louis Goliath, during that tense period of time where I had decided to leave but still needed to prepare. I could have seen Rinaldo, though, among our prisoners, and not even registered it.

I wanted to ask if either of them had seen me, remembered me, but I could not. And at least I, unlike some, could acknowledge my own cowardice.

I had left all my books in Felix's suite—it was always _Felix's_ suite, never _ours_ , because I knew very well the position I held in the Mirador. Simon and Rinaldo had plenty to read, of course, and Simon at least was always willing to fetch me books from various archives (with the stipulation that, of course, he would later put them back). But I disliked the feeling of leaving a book half-finished, and I could not stop picturing Marion Salazar's _Concerning the Thaumaturgy of Wood_ lying abandoned on the table beside the dresser.

By now, though, either Marcus or Rollo would have put the book back on the shelves—if they dared tidy Felix's room any more than necessary. Simon told me how Felix appeared at court, bloodless and angry, and I did not envy their job.

I tried not to think about them too much. I tried not to think about anything too much, in fact, because my mind kept going back to our argument and picking at the memory of it like an itching scab. Perhaps I had picked up some bad habits from Felix.

When we fought, that last time, I told him the truth—every truth. I told him that he was a coward and a liar and, more than that, that every time he called himself a coward and a liar he was just using his guilt to atone for the way he had hurt others, to bring the attention back onto himself and his pain, to absolve himself even if he had not received forgiveness.

Felix had done this to Mildmay and to myself, many times, and whenever he had before I just remembered his scared and open vulnerability in Hermione, three years ago. I know that vulnerability—that open and fearful _need—_ was still there, somewhere, in Felix. But he had twisted the pain around himself like a shield, turning it outward to hurt others.

This fight had brought out the worst of that, I imagined. It had brought out the worst of me as well. When I was sixteen years old in the Bastion I had found a cold place inside of myself, a place where I could go when I wanted to feel nothing, remember nothing, a place from which I could perform terrible deeds, endure terrible things, and yet exit relatively intact. I thought I had left that place behind me in the Bastion—or at least in the dungeons of Aiaia. But this argument had brought it back.

I felt the place like a void in my chest and I still did not remember everything I said to Felix in that argument. I knew most of the things I said were terrible. But they were also true, and even now, I would not have apologized for them.

I would not apologize, but I might come back, if Felix could change and prove that he had changed—an achievement I sincerely doubted was possible in our lifetimes. And I was too old and too tired of hoping.

Simon was telling Rinaldo about our visit with the necromancer and I only half-listened. Mildmay's investigation was an interesting and highly welcome diversion from my own thoughts, but tonight I was feeling irritable and distracted. Coming back early, while Mildmay went on with the necromancer and her servant, was irritating to my sense of curiosity, and entering the Mirador itself felt like going back underneath a heavy black shroud, where all the stress of the past few weeks fell back heavily on my shoulders.

I remained in my chair and tried not to look as though I was brooding—brooding was Felix's habit—as Rinaldo and Simon speculated about Luther Littleman and Vey Coruscant.

At the knock at the door, all three of us looked up.

“It's probably Mildmay,” Simon said, going to open it.

It was not Mildmay. The quiet boy who cleaned Simon and Rinaldo's suite entered the room and handed Simon a piece of paper. Simon frowned at it, and then handed it to me. “It's a message for you,” he said. “From Felix.”

I frowned. :Did the boy say anything else about it?: I asked, because I did not want to read the message. I was afraid what it would say—I was afraid that, if Felix asked for forgiveness, I would give it to him.

“Nothing,” Simon replied. He and Rinaldo were trying very hard to pretend that they weren't waiting with bated breath to hear what Felix had to say.

The message was written on his good paper, thick stock with gilt edges, the one he saved for invitations and notes of gratitude (and flirtatious letters, I thought, reminding myself that I was angry). Reluctantly, I opened the note. It was written using plain black ink in Felix's block hand, the kind he reserved for writing out formulas and writing to Mildmay. I wondered what it meant, that he would write to me in this way. Was he afraid I would not be able to read his handwriting otherwise, or was it a sign that he was still angry?

When I realized I was focusing on the writing style in order to avoid reading the message, I forced myself to focus.

_GIDEON—_

_PLEASE MEET ME IN THE VERMILLION ROOM IN THE AQUARELLE CORRIDOR. I AM WORKING THERE NOW. I WANT TO TALK._

_PLEASE._

_FELIX_

I frowned at the letter and said, before Simon or Rinaldo would have to bring themselves to ask, :He wants to talk.:

“Well he certainly took his time about it,” Rinaldo said gruffly, as Simon hushed him. “Don't say that!” He turned to me. “Are you going to go?”

I looked down at the letter again, the clear block letters seeming to shout at me from the page. :I don't understand why he wants me to meet him in the Vermillion Room,: I mused. :He never goes there.:

“Neutral ground?” Simon suggested.

I shrugged.

“Are you going to meet him?” Rinaldo asked. I could hear the disapproval in his voice. Rinaldo did not have a soft spot for Felix like Simon did; he liked him, certainly, but he knew that Felix had his limits. And he could see them better than either Simon or myself. “You're welcome to come back here if things don't work out,” he added more gently. I had been staring at the letter and not paying attention; I wondered if some gesture from Simon had prompted him to make that addition.

“And you don't have to see him if you don't want to,” Simon added, though I could practically feel his curiosity. He wanted to know what Felix had to say.

So did I. Felix had written “please”. Twice. He never did that. I was standing before I could think about it, pushing the letter from Felix into my pocket.

“Good luck,” Rinaldo said, nodding at me.

“If Mildmay comes back, shall I have him wait for you to tell us what happened?” Simon asked.

I shook my head. :Please don't wait for me. I can hear it all later.:

“Very well,” Simon replied. I paused only to pull on my coat—the Aquarelle Corridor was often surprisingly cold—and walked out. I would not forgive Felix, I reminded myself. But at the very least, I could ask him for my books.

*

 _That was six. I searched the shelves, looking for the book that Gideon himself would have most wanted to take. And I knew, my breath hitching with something that was not quite pain, when I found it. Nahum Westerly's_ Inquiries into the World's Heart _. I had never seen Gideon reading it; he didn't need to. He could quote long passages of it from memory. But he'd insisted on buying a copy all the same, and I knew, I knew, that that was the book he would have chosen._

*

WESTERLEY, Nahum, _Inquiries into the World's Heart —_ a true classic in any thaumaturgical field, as it revolutionized traditional approaches to thaumaturgy and postulated for the first time the idea of magic as metaphor.In the tradition of the greatest Marathine thinkers before the birth of the Cabaline school, Westerley views his work as an attempt to synthesize Marathine heterodoxy into a single, universal doctrine of thaumaturgy. His approach is unique in that it is based on the assumption that thaumaturgical workings are enacted in a structure that has clear and observable rules, much like the form of grammar in a language.

*

Reading Nahum Westerley's _Inquiries into the World's Heart_ when I was twenty-one years old, I became fascinated by the idea of magic as metaphor—an idea that seems evident, even banal, today, but was completely revolutionary when Westerley published his book. Every thaumaturgical school has their pet metaphors for explaining and enacting the working of magic. They are each, as Westerley says, like different languages.

But, he adds, referencing Maureen Palaver's non-thaumaturgical treatise on linguistic differences between Marathine and Midlander—where she postulates a common “mother language” from which they are descended—perhaps, if we spend enough time examining these metaphors, tracing their roots, and analyzing their meanings, we can find the basic structure that all magic has in common.

And from that structure... who knows? Westerley certainly didn't, and no one trying to fulfill his grand program has been successful so far. When the Cabal took control of the Mirador, in fact, Westerley's writing became rather unpopular. The Cabaline School preferred to shelter behind draconian restrictions for thaumaturgical practice, ignoring the metaphors (or languages) of other schools in an attempt for political security.

In my opinion, this was the most interesting aspect of the Cabaline school—its strict and often deadly distinction between accepted forms of magical working and “heresy.” For me, a heterodox Eusebian to the bone even now, this notion of heresy still felt strange. For more orthodox souls—Thaddeus de Lalage, for example—swearing into a school where heresy is punishable by death must have felt quite comfortable. Thaddeus did always prefer being right about other people's failures when the stakes were high.

Thinking of Thaddeus brought my mind away from my short meditation on Cabline orthodoxy, back to the worry I was trying to escape. I wondered offhandedly what he would say now, if he learned that Felix was currently in the Bastion searching for his younger brother.

He would probably laugh. And laugh again if I asked him to help. My hold on him was not so great that it could wrest him once again from the side of Lord Protector Stephen or Lord Giancarlo.

One of the reasons I felt so helpless—and therefore continued to uselessly turn the pages of a book I was not even reading—was because there was really nothing I could do. I could not go haring after Felix because I could not return to the Bastion without bringing great danger upon myself and the rest of the wizards in the Mirador; a Eusebian could flee and live out the rest of his life with good intentions, but the moment he came back it would be as if he had been acting as a spy for the Empire all along. I knew. I had worked with Louis Goliath.

And therefore, if Felix did not come back, I supposed I would eventually have to stop waiting and continue to go about my life, such as it was, in the Mirador. For even if Thaddeus should let me have an audience with Lord Giancarlo or Lord Protector Stephen, they would likely shrug and inform me that the situation was beyond both their power and their jurisdiction. Felix had made his own choices, they would say. He was reckless and foolish. Ultimately the Mirador was better off without him, they would think, and my anxiety turned to anger when I imagined Thaddeus's reaction to the entire situation.

Then my anger faded and the tired nervousness returned.

This morning, the young boy who brought my breakfast asked whether I was not eating because I did not like the food. If so, he assured me, he could have the kitchens send up something else. I had shaken my head; it was not a question of hunger or of taste.

In the first few months of my conscription, the older lieutenants had mocked me when I could not eat. They thought I was refusing, trying to starve myself to death. That was untrue—I knew other, quicker ways of suicide had I wished it. I simply could not bring myself eat. The constant, writhing anxiety in my stomach had replaced any need for food.

That had been when I was fourteen, in the Bastion. Felix was in the Bastion now. And so my thoughts went, in a great whirling, endless circle.

I had almost managed to reimmerse myself in my book when I heard the door open. I assumed it was the servant boy whose name I did not know, perhaps coming back with a different dish from the cook even though I had shaken my head in response to his question.

But—

It wasn't the boy: I realized that immediately.

It was Felix—that realization came hard on the heels of the first, but to me in that moment it felt like an eternity of confusion, replaced suddenly and all at once by an overwhelming mix of joy and relief. Felix, and unhurt, and looking at me like he had seen something that surprised him. I would have asked him what it was, but my relief transformed into worry when I saw Mildmay, looking battered and bruised and _exhausted_ , in the doorway behind Felix. I stood.

“'M all right,” he slurred before I could even ask Felix. His voice was so low that, had I not been sitting in one of the chairs nearer the door, I might not have heard him. “Going to bed.”

I turned my regard to Felix, raising my eyebrows; Felix shrugged and, wearing an expression of helpless worry, bid him good night.

Mildmay moved to his own room, and I did not believe I was imagining it in thinking that his limp had gotten worse. The door shut behind him with an audible thunk and Felix and I were left alone. I was highly aware of the uncomfortable way the wooden frame of the armchair was pressing into the backs of my knees and the awkward way that my book dangling in my hands, still half open.

My original elation upon seeing Felix alive and whole had settled back into a different kind of anxiety—the niggling worry of things left unfinished, unsaid. Arguments that we had not yet had. Our future, such as it was, which might or might not exist.

For all that my anxiety was returning, I was able to bear these silences better than Felix could. I imagine I had benefited from a better tutor in patience when I was growing up. He was the one who broke the silence first, not to regale me with tales of the Bastion but to ask after my own affairs. I thought this type of sweetness was something of which Felix was not aware; otherwise, he would have already mastered it as a weapon in his endless power games.

“Did Thaddeus leave you alone?”

:Thank you, yes:, I said, even as I realized I was being overly, excruciatingly polite. :Your suite is very peaceful, and the servants most polite. I believe they lied to Thaddeus on my behalf more than once.:

Felix nodded, looking distracted and slightly miserable. “You're, ah, welcome to stay if you like,” he said.

Was this his idea of a resolution to all the questions and responses that lay half-answered between us? I could not help my derision from showing on my face; I lifted an eyebrow at him in response. I had always known, but had learned even more clearly over this past year, that there were ways of saying a great deal of things without using words.

And Felix understood what I meant to say—the color rose to his face and he turned abruptly, almost jerkily, to poke at the fire, which I had let die into a mere smolder over the hours.

With his eyes no longer boring into mine, I was able to move; I shut the book and placed it on the table beside the armchair. Then I took a few steps forward and crossed my arms over my chest, watching Felix pay attention to the fire so he would not have to pay attention to me. His hair was in an unruly queue; his back and shoulders were stiff.

After a moment, I relented. :How is Mildmay?: A safer topic—though Felix knew well, I hoped, how I felt about the way that he treated his brother.

“I don't know,” Felix said. “He didn't talk to anyone for five days. He still isn't talking to me, particularly. Mehitabel told me he told her he doesn't remember what Malkar did to him.”

:It would not be surprising,: I told him. :It is a common defensive reaction to severe trauma.: In my reply, I was thinking not only about lessons I had been taught by Louis Goliath, lessons about the finer arts of obtaining information from an unwilling subject, but also discussions I had had with other oblates my age when we could see each other away from the wary eyes of our superiors.

Felix, unsurprisingly, took my remark as though I meant it as a direct jab at him. Perhaps I had, in a sense. “Thank you so very much,” he replied, and beneath the sarcasm of his tone I detected a bitter hurt.

:Give him time,: I added. As a comfort, it was a poor attempt; as wisdom, it was worth little.

It certainly didn't help Felix. “There's nothing else I _can_ give him,” he said, and there was much more hurt than irony in his tone. In spite of myself, I moved towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. There was a time for holding back and waiting for answers, but there was also a time where gestures of comfort were more needed than words.

All the same, I was trained more for words than for actions.

:If I were to stay...: I began. It was something I had been thinking about for most of the time Felix had been gone, worrying myself with domestic concerns so I would not have to think about what might be happening to him and to Mildmay in the Bastion.

“Yes?” Felix was still staring at the fire, now flickering cheerfully in the grate.

:You will treat him—:

“Like he was my brother, yes,” Felix said immediately, cutting me off with such sharp vehemence that I flinched. I was still unused to lovers with _moods—_ once again I was reminded that Felix would have likely not survived as a Eusebian.

But I persevered. Because if any one thing was keeping me from fully trusting Felix, fully committing, it was that I had seen the way he treated the people who love him. I had seen the way he treated Mildmay. :And how will you treat me?:

He finally turned to regard me, and I registered the moment when he realized that I was asking this question earnestly, and that I expected an answer that was earnest in turn. He took a breath. “You said you didn't expect me to be other than what I am. But I don't want to make you be other than yourself either. And I don't know how...”

In moments like this, when Felix was honest and unarmed, he was breathtakingly, astonishingly beautiful, and even more beautiful because he did not know it. And although his answer was fragmented, more babbling than anything, it was satisfactory simply because it is not a lie. This was another thing I had observed about Felix: he had an uncanny ability to make people forgive him. :Negotiation is supposed to be good for treaty-making,: I pointed out, only half serious.

Felix stared at me until I could not help but smile, my expression wide and open once again. I wanted to tell him that all I expected, all I _needed_ , was that same honesty he just showed me, the kind that made him drop his guard and admit that he was perhaps less polished and perfect than he seemed, that he was not simply a puppet master and we, his marionettes.

I wanted to tell him that I was not and never had been someone with whom he needed to be on his guard, that I had neither the intention nor the _power_ to betray any aspect of his trust, that I recalled too clearly having betrayed him in Hermione and wanted never to repeat that experience, even though he was (on the surface) very different from the frightened and broken man he was then.

I wanted to tell him the way it felt like a weight had lifted off my shoulders and my heart, knowing that he and his brother were safely returned.

I wanted to tell him how lucky I was—but that would only serve to fan the flames of his ego. And he was already smiling back and leaning down to kiss me.

*

 _I put it with the others and sat at the table to wait for Mildmay_.

 _I did not open any of the books_.

 


End file.
